The Hound of Rowan
by Arch Mage of Dragons
Summary: This is a rewrite of the Hound of Rowan. It starts off using the same words, but with small changes in detail that will become bigger later on. This rewrite of the excellent first book of the Tapestry series gives it a new and exciting twist for everyone.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

**The Boy, The Train, And The Tapestry**

Max McDaniels pressed his forehead against the train window and watched storm clouds race across the yellow sky. With a soft patter, rain began to streak the glass, and the sky darkened to a bruise. Fogging the window, Max blinked at his own watery reflection in the glass. It blinked back at him: a dark-eyed boy with wavy black hair and his mother's sharp cheekbones.

His father's voice rumbled beside him, and Max turned in his seat.

"Which do you like better?" his father asked with an enthusiastic grin. He held a pair of glossy advertisements between his thick fingers. Max looked at the ads, his gaze settling on the image of an elegant woman at a kitchen sink, her head thrown back in amusement.

"_Not_ that one," he said. "It's way too cheesy."

Mr. McDaniels's broad, smiling face drooped. Big as a bear, Max's father had pale blue eyes and a deep, dimpled chin.

"It's not cheesy," he protested, squinting at the ad and smoothing his tuft of thinning brown hair. "What's _cheesy_ about it?"

"Nobody's _that_ happy doing dishes," said Max, pointing at the beaming woman up to her elbows in suds. "And nobody does the dishes in a fancy dress—"

"But that's the whole point!" interrupted his father, waving the flimsy ad about. "Ambrosia is the first 'ultra-premium' dish soap! A heavenly lather that's soft enough for the tub, but still has muscle for the toughest—"

Max flushed. "Dad…"

Mr. McDaniels paused long enough to see the other passengers glancing curiously at them. With a snort, he slipped the ads back inside his raincoat as the train came to a temporary stop on the outskirts of the city.

"It's not so bad," Max reassured him. "Maybe you could just make her smile a little less toothy."

Mr. McDaniels chuckled and promptly slid his ample bottom across the seat to squish his son. Max elbowed back as more people crowded onto the train, collapsing umbrellas and shaking the wet hair from their eyes.

Thunder shook the car and the train started to move again. The passengers shrieked and laughed as the cabin went dark. Max squeezed his father's arm, and the train's yellow lights flickered slowly back to life. The rain fell harder now as they neared Chicago, a looming backdrop of steel and brick set in stark relief against the summer storm.

Max was still grinning when he saw the man.

He was sitting across the aisle in the row behind them, pale and unkempt, with short black hair still damp from the rain. He appeared exhausted; his eyelids fluttered as he slouched low in his dirty coat and mouthed silent words against the window.

Max turned away for a moment, swiveling for a better look. He caught his breath.

The man was staring at him.

He sat perfectly still as he focused on Max with a startling pair of mismatched eyes. While one eye was green, the other gleamed as wet and white as a peeled egg. Max stared back at it, transfixed. It looked to be a blind, dead thing—a thing of nightmares.

But Max knew somehow that this eye was not blind or dead. He knew he was being studied by it—appraised in the way his mother used to examine a glass of wine or an old photograph. Holding Max's gaze, the man eased his head up off the glass and shifted his weight toward the aisle.

The train entered a tunnel, and the car went dark. A spasm of fear overcame Max. He buried his face in his father's warm coat. Mr. McDaniels grunted and dropped several product brochures onto the floor. The train eased to a stop, and Max heard his father's voice.

"You falling asleep on me, Max? Get your things together—we're here kiddo."

Max looked up to find the car was light and passengers were shuffling toward the exits. His eyes darted from face to face. The strange man was nowhere to be seen. Flushed, Max gathered his umbrella and sketchbook and hurried out after his father.

The station was crowded with people milling to and from platforms. Voices droned over loudspeakers; weekend shoppers scurried about with bags and children in tow. Mr. McDaniels steered Max down the escalator toward the exits. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still threatening and newspapers eddied about the street in sudden fits of flight. Arriving at a line of yellow taxis, Mr. McDaniels opened the door to one and stood aside to let Max scoot across the long vinyl seat.

"The Art Institute, please," said his father.

Max craned his neck, straining to glimpse the tops of the skyscrapers as the cab headed east toward the lake.

"Dad," said Max. "Did you see that man on the train?"

"Which man?"

"He was sitting across the aisle in the row behind us," Max said, shuddering.

"No, I don't think so," said his father, flicking some lint off his raincoat. "What was so special about him?"

"I don't know. He was scary-looking and he was staring at me. He looked like he was going to say something or come over right before we went into the tunnel."

"Well, if he was staring at you, it's probably because you were staring at him," said Mr. McDaniels. "You'll see more kinds of people in the city, Max."

"I know, Dad, but—"

"You can't judge a book by its cover, you know."

"I _know_, Dad, but—"

"Now, there's this guy at my office. Young kid, still wet behind the ears. Well, my first day I see this kid at the coffee machine with makeup on his eyes, a harpoon through his nose, and music blaring out of his headphones…"

Max looked out the taxi's window while his father retold a familiar tale. Finally, Max caught a glimpse of what he had been looking for: two bronze lions standing tall and proud as they flanked the museum entrance.

"Dad, there's the Art Institute."

"Right you are, right you are. Oh, before I forget," Mr. McDaniels said, turning to Max with a sad little smile on his broad face. "Thanks for coming with me today, Max. I appreciate it. Your mom appreciates it, too."

Max offered a solemn nod and gave his dad's hand a fierce squeeze. The McDanielses had always celebrated Bryn McDaniels's birthday with a visit to her favorite museum. Despite his mother's disappearance over two years ago, Max and his father continued the tradition.

Once inside, they asked a young woman with a nametag where they could find some of Bryn McDaniels's favorite artists. Max listened as his father rattled off the names from a slip of paper: Picasso, Matisse, and van Gogh came handily enough, but he paused when he came to the last.

"_Gaw-gin?_" he asked, twisting up his face and frowning at the paper.

"Gauguin. He's a wonderful artist. I think you'll enjoy his work." The woman smiled and directed them to a large marble staircase leading to the second floor.

"Your mom sure knows all the names. I've got no head for this stuff no matter how many times I come here." Mr. McDaniels chuckled and smacked Max on the shoulder with the map.

The galleries upstairs were filled with color—great swirls of paint layered thickly on canvas and board. Mr. McDaniels pointed to a large painting of pedestrians on a rainy Paris street.

"That looks a bit like today, eh?"

"The rain does, but to look like him you'd have to add a mustache and top hat," Max mused, squinting at a figure in the foreground.

"Ugh! I used to have a mustache. Your mother made me shave it when we started dating."

Some images dominated whole walls, while others nestled in small gilded frames. They spent an hour or so moving from painting to painting, careful to spend extra time at Mrs. McDaniels's favorites. Max particularly liked a Picasso in which a weathered old man cradled a guitar. He was studying the painting when he heard his father exclaim behind him.

"Bob? Bob Lukens! How are you?"

Max turned to see his father pumping the arm of a thin, middle aged man in a black sweater. A woman accompanied him, and the two were offering hesitant smiles as Mr. McDaniels cornered them.

"Hello, Scott. Nice to see you," the man said politely. "Honey, this is Scott McDaniels. He works on the Bedford Bros. account…."

"Oh, what a nice surprise. Pleased to meet you, Scott."

"_They'll change the way you think about soup!_" Mr. McDaniels boomed, shooting a finger toward the ceiling.

Mrs. Lukens gave a start and dropped her purse.

"Imagine a wintry day," Mr. McDaniels continued, bending over to retrieve her things while she retreated a step behind her husband. "Your nose is running, the wind is blowing, and all you've got to warm your tummy is a can of boring old soup in the pantry. Well, _no_ soup is boring with Bedford Bros. Crispy Soup Wafers! Their snappy shapes and crisp crunch will jazz that soup right up and make your taste buds salute!"

Mr. McDaniels raised a hand to his forehead and stood at dutiful attention. Max wanted to go home.

Mr. Lukens chuckled. "Did I mention that Scott's a fanatic, honey?"

Mrs. Lukens ventured a smile as Mr. McDaniels shook her hand, then turned to Max.

"Max, I'd like you to meet Mr. and Mrs. Lukens. Mr. Lukens runs my agency—the big boss. Max and I are here to get a shot of culture, eh?"

Max smiled nervously and extended his hand to Mr. Lukens, who gave it a warm shake.

"Pleased to meet you, Max. Good to see a young man pulling himself away from video games and MTV! See anything you like?"

"I like this Picasso," said Max.

"I've always liked that one myself. You've got a good eye…." Mr. Lukens patted him on the shoulder and turned back to Mr. McDaniels. "I'd ask you to compare it with a favorite of mine, but unfortunately it's gone."

"What do you mean?" asked Mr. McDaniels.

"It was one of the three paintings stolen from here last week," said Mr. Lukens, frowning.

"The papers say there were two more stolen from the Prado just last night."

"Oh," said Mr. McDaniels. "That's terrible."

"It _is_ terrible," said Mr. Lukens conclusively, glancing again at Max. "Say, bring Max by the office sometime, Scott. I've got a print of my missing favorite and we'll see if Rembrandt can trump Picasso!"

"Will do, will do," said Mr. McDaniels, chuckling and kneeling down to Max's height.

"Hey, sport," he said with a wink. "Dad's got to talk a bit of shop, and I don't want to bore you to tears. How 'bout you go sketch some of those tin suits you and your mom used to draw? I'll meet you down at the bookstore in half an hour. Okay?"

Max nodded and said good-bye to the Lukenses, who promptly shrank before the wildly gesticulating form of Scott McDaniels. Max clutched his sketchbook and pencil and stalked down the hall, silently seething that his dad never passed up an opportunity to talk business, even on his mother's special day.

The armor gallery was darker than the others, its artifacts glinting softly from behind clean glass. There were fewer people here, and Max was happy for the opportunity to sketch in relative peace and quiet. He strolled along a velvet rope, stopping to examine a crossbow here, a chalice there. The walls were arrayed with all manner of weapons: black iron maces, broad-bladed axes, and towering swords. He paused before a stand of ceremonial halberds before spying just the right subject to sketch.

The suit of armor was enormous. It dwarfed its neighbors on either side, gleaming bright silver inside its broad glass case. Max moved around to the other side, tilting his head up for a better view of the helmet. Several minutes later, he had roughed the basic figure onto the page.

As Max struggled to draw the elaborate breastplate, a commotion at the far end of the hall grabbed his attention. Max peered through the glass case and immediately caught his breath.

The man from the train was here.

Max lowered himself to a crouch and watched as the man towered over the guard at the gallery entrance. He made quick, chopping gestures with his hand. The motions became faster as the volume of his voice rose.

"This tall," he spat in an Eastern European accent. He held his hand flat to approximate Max's height. "A black-haired boy about twelve, carrying a sketchbook."

The guard was backed against backed against the doorway, looking the man up and down. He began to reach for his radio. But then the strange man leaned in close and hissed something Max could not hear. Inexplicably, the guard nodded and hooked a fat thumb over his shoulder toward the suits of armor where Max was hiding.

Frantic, Max scanned his surroundings and noticed a dark doorway directly to his right. A velvet rope hung across it along with a sign the read UNDER REPAIR: PLEASE KEEP OUT.

Ignoring the sign, Max ducked beneath the rope and melted around the corner. He stood rigid against the wall and waited for his hiding place to be discovered. Nothing happened. It was several long seconds before Max realized that he had left his sketchbook in the other gallery. A wave of panic crashed over him; surely the man would see it and guess where Max had hidden.

A minute passed, followed by another, and another. Max heard the footsteps and casual conversation of people strolling past the doorway. He peered around the corner. The man was gone—along with Max's sketchbook. Sinking slowly to the floor, Max pictured his name and address penciled neatly on the inside cover. He lifted his head and cast a hopeless glance at the room that had hidden him.

It was surprisingly small for a gallery. The air was musty, and the room had a soft amber glow. The sole object within it was a ragged tapestry that hung on the opposite wall. Max blinked. As strange as it seemed, the dim light was radiating from the tapestry itself. He moved closer.

The tapestry was an ancient thing. Sun and centuries had sapped its color until all that remained were splotched and faded bands of ochre. As he got closer, however, Max noticed faint hints and undercurrents of color submerged beneath its dull, rough surface.

His stomach began to tingle as though he'd swallowed a handful of bees. The little hairs on his arm rose one by one, and Max stood still, breathing hard.

_Twang!_

A single thread burst into bright gold. Max yelped and jumped backward. The thread flashed like fire, as fine and delicate as spider silk. It vibrated like a harp string, issuing a single musical note that reverberated throughout the gallery before fading to silence. Max glanced back at the doorway. Patrons continued to stroll by, but they seemed far away and oblivious to the small gallery, its lone occupant, and the strange tapestry.

More threads came to life, plucked from their slumber in a rising chorus of light and music. Some arrived individually, in a sudden snap of light and sound; others emerged together in woven harmonies of silver, green, and gold. To Max, it seemed he had dusted off an alien instrument that now resumed a strange and forgotten song. The song became richer. When the last thread sang into being, Max gave a sudden gasp of pain. The pain was sharper than a stitch and was caused by something deep within him.

That something had been with Max ever since he could remember. It was a lurking presence, huge and wild, and Max was afraid of it. Throughout his life he had fought with great difficulty to keep it walled within him. The struggles caused headaches, including unbearable stretches that lasted for days. Max knew those days were over as he felt the presence burst free. Unfettered at last, it glided slowly through his consciousness before sounding deep within his being to stir the silt.

The pain subsided. Max took a deep breath while tears ran free in warm little rivers down his face. He brushed the tapestry's woven surface with his fingers.

The light and colors shifted to form golden, interlacing patterns that framed three strange, glowing words near the top.

_TÁIN BÓ CÚAILNGE_

Centered below these words was the beautifully woven image of a bull in a pasture surrounded by dozens of sleeping warriors. A host of armed men were approaching from the right; a trio of black birds wheeled in the sky above. Overlooking the scene from a nearby hill was the silhouette of a tall man clutching a spear.

Max's eyes swept over the picture, but they always returned to the dark figure on the hill. Slowly, the tapestry's light grew brighter; its image trembled and danced behind shimmering waves of heat. With a rising cacophony of sound, the tapestry erupted with radiance so hot and bright Max feared it would consume him.

Max reached out for the picture to touch it once more, but stumbled forward instead and cut his finger on the nail supporting the tapestry. There was blood slowly oozing from the cut. He attempted to steady himself with the uncut hand, but started to slip.

Max put out his other hand to steady himself, but the moment his bleeding hand came in contact with the brightly glowing tapestry, there was a pain much more intense than before and he instantly doubled over in pain. Then, the pain was gone and he stood up slowly, warily, as if afraid the pain might come back.

Glancing down at his cut thumb, Max saw that there was no evidence of a wound. It had simply healed, so quickly in fact, that it seemed there had been no cut to begin with. Emerging from the gallery in a sort of trance, he turned away to the side just in time to see a man dressed completely in black inches from him. As he was about to be bowled over by the man in black, Max threw up his arms and braced himself for impact. It never came. He stood there for a second with his hands in front of his eyes before peeking over the top of his arm. The man in black was frozen in place; he wasn't moving at all. In fact, he was suspended slightly above the ground. Max slowly put down his arms and tentatively approached this strange new phenomenon. As he got closer and closer to the figure, Max was startled out of his reverie by the sound of heavy footsteps and turned to see the man from the train come through the doorway.

Backing away hurriedly, Max stumbled and fell; at which point the man in black came back to the normal time frame. The man from the train rushed at the man in black and launched himself in a devastating tackle about a foot from his adversary. The man in black was knocked out at the feet of his attacker.

At this point, Max turned and ran without looking back. He didn't make it far before he heard a slightly muffled voice call out, "Max! Max McDaniels!" He turned to see his father rush into the gallery and, as he turned, he saw that the two men were gone.

"Oh, thank God! Thank God!" Mr. McDaniels cried out in relief as he stooped to smother Max in the folds of his coat. "Max, where on _earth_ have you been? I've been looking for you for the last two hours!"

"Dad, I'm sorry," Max said, baffled. "I'm okay. I was just in that other room, but I haven't been gone more than twenty minutes."

"What are you talking about? What other room?" Mr. McDaniels's voice quavered as he peered over Max's shoulder.

"The one that's under repair," replied Max, turning to point out the sign. He stopped, began to speak, and stopped again. There was no doorway, no sign, and no velvet rope.

Mr. McDaniels turned to the two guards, offering each a firm handshake. As the guards moved beyond earshot, Mr. McDaniels kneeled to Max's height. His eyes were puffed and searching.

"Max, be honest with me. Where have you been for the last two hours?"

Max took a deep breath. "I was in a room off this gallery. Dad, I swear to you I didn't think I was in there very long."

"Where was this room?" asked Mr. McDaniels as he unfolded the museum map.

Max felt sick.

The room with the tapestry was simply not on the map.

"Max…I'm going to ask you this one time and on time only. Are you lying to me?

Max stared hard at his shoes. Raising his eyes to his father's, he heard his own voice, soft and trembling.

"No, Dad. I'm not lying to you."

Before Max had finished the sentence, his father was pulling him briskly toward the exit. Several girls his age giggled and whispered as Max was dragged, feet shuffling and head bowed, out the museum entrance and down the steps.

The only sounds during the cab ride to the train station came from Mr. McDaniels thumbing rapidly through his pamphlets. Max noticed some were upside down or backward. The rain and wind were picking up again as the cab slowed to a halt near the train station.

"Make sure you've got your things," sighed Mr. McDaniels, exiting the other side. He sounded tired and sad. Max drooped and thought better of sharing the fact that he had also lost his sketchbook, or what he had seen once he exited the gallery.

Once on the train, the pair slid heavily into a padded booth. Mr. McDaniels handed his return ticket to the conductor, then leaned back and closed his eyes. The conductor turned to Max.

"Ticket, please."

"Oh, I've got it right here," Max muttered absentmindedly. He reached into his pocket, but procured a small envelope instead. The sight of his name scripted clearly on the envelope made him pause.

Confused, Max retrieved the ticket from his other pocket and gave it to the conductor. Glancing to confirm that his father was still resting, Max then looked over the envelope. In the warm yellow light it appeared buttery, its heavy paper folds converging to pleasing corners. He turned the envelope over and examined the silky navy script.

Mr. Max McDaniels

Dear Mr. McDaniels,

Our records indicate that you registered as a

Potential this afternoon at 3:37 p.m. CSJ, U.S. Congratulations, Mr. McDaniels—you must be a very remarkable young man, and we look forward to making your acquaintance. One of our regional representatives will be contacting you shortly. Until that time, we would appreciate your absolute silence and utmost discretion in this matter.

Best regards,

Gabrielle Richter

Executive Director

Max read the note several times before stowing it back in his pocket. He felt utterly drained. He could not guess how the letter had come to be in his possession, much less what a "Potential" was and what it all had to do with him. He _could_ guess it had something to do with the hidden tapestry, the mysterious presence now roaming free within him, the man who had been frozen in time, and the man from the train. Max stared out the window. Brilliant shafts of sunlight chased wispy trails of storm clouds across the western sky. So much had happened today and it just kept running through his mind over and over; his mind kept wandering back to how he had become involved. Exhausted, he leaned against his father and drifted off to sleep, his fingers closed tight around the mysterious envelope.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

**Three Soft Knocks**

The next morning, Max yawned as he watched his father toss a pair of black socks into an overnight bag. Zipping it closed, his father suddenly grunted and lumbered down the hallway. He returned a minute later with a handful of television cables and video-game controllers.

"Not that I don't trust you…"

The tangled mess was stuffed into the bag and zipped up tight.

"What am I supposed to do all day?" Max moaned.

"Being ground is a punishment," his father growled. "You're the one yawning—feel free to sleep the day away."

Max had to admit that didn't sound half bad. He had spent much of the night peering out of his window. The idea that the dead-eyed man might have Max's name and address and could be coming at any moment had kept him occupied until dawn. By daylight, however, his fears seemed silly.

All the same, as a taxi honked outside, Max had a sudden urge to tell his father about the two men at the museum. He swallowed his words. At this point, it would seem little better than a last gasp to avoid punishment.

"I'll only be gone a day," his father sighed. Mr. Lukens had granted Mr. McDaniels the opportunity to pitch a new client, and he was off for an overnight trip to Kansas City. "The number for the Raleighs is on the fridge. They'll expect you for dinner by six, and you can sleep over there. Be good. I'll see you tomorrow afternoon."

With a peck on the head, Scott McDaniels was gone. Max locked the door, and curiosity led him back upstairs to examine his letter. Several readings later, it was still a mystery. He stood and looked out the window, listening to the wind as it shook the tall trees near the backyard fort he had built with his father. When his stomach began to growl, Max finally put the letter aside and went downstairs to make a sandwich.

He was descending the stairs when he saw a shadow moving beneath the front door. Max stopped as heard three soft knocks. He remained still, poised between steps, when the knocks sounded again.

"Hello?" a lady called. "Anybody home?"

Max exhaled—it was not the man from the museum. Tiptoeing down to a side window, he glimpsed a plump, elderly woman holding a suitcase and glancing at her watch. Her cane was propped against the door. Catching sight of Max, she smiled brightly and waved.

"Hello. Are you Max McDaniels? I'm Mrs. Millen. I believe you received a letter that said I would be visiting you?"

Max smiled and waved back.

"Might I come in?" she asked sweetly, nodding toward the locked door.

He slid back the brass bolt and opened the door. Mrs. Millen stood on the doorstep, beaming and extending her hand.

"It's very nice to meet you, Max. I was hoping I could have a few words with you about the letter you received."

"Sure. Nice to meet you too," Max responded warily as he began to feel that presence within him stirring again and he began to feel that something was wrong.

"Yes, well, can we sit down and have a chat?"

Max led Mrs. Millen to the dining room, glancing back over his shoulder to keep an eye on her as they went. She politely declined when he offered to carry her suitcase, leaning heavily on her cane as she swung it along. With a grateful sigh, she settled into a chair, sending up a waft of perfume. She smiled and removed her glasses to massage red, puffy eyes as Max took a seat across from her.

"Well, before we begin…might I have the pleasure of meeting your parents? Are they at home?"

"My dad's out on business."

"I see," she said. "And your mother?"

Max glanced at an old photo of the McDaniels family propped on the buffet.

"She's not home, either."

"Well, that certainly makes my job a bit easier," she said. Her shoulders relaxed, and she gave Max a little wink.

"How do you mean?" Ma frowned, leaning back in chair. He glanced at her suitcase, puzzled by the long, shallow scratches that scored its side.

"Oh, well, parents are often very set in their ways. For example, most parents can't really understand strange events at the Art Institute, now, can they?"

Max smiled at her, while alarms went off in his head. He knew nothing good would come of this. There was no way she should have known about this and she was behaving suspiciously, as well.

"You did have quite a day yesterday, didn't you, Max?"

"Yeah—I mean yes. Yes, I did."

"And tell me, what was so special about it?"

"Well, I saw lots of weird things," Max said with a shrug. "I found a room—a room I couldn't find again after I'd left it. While I was in the room, I saw a tapestry."

Mrs. Millen nodded, tapping her finger against the table's smooth, shiny surface.

"Was it pretty?" she asked. "Was it a pretty tapestry?"

"Not at first."

Her finger froze in mid-tap.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"It was ugly," Max whispered. But then he paused. His experience now seemed very personal and he had forgotten himself by sharing it with her.

"Yes?" Mrs. Millen said. "It was ugly? An old, ratty tapestry? Go on, dear…I know it seems secret and silly, but it's all right to share it with me. Believe me, Max, you'll feel better if you do,"

She smiled and leaned forward expectantly. Max suddenly felt sleepy.

"It started to glow," Max said slowly, tracing the table's grain with his finger. "There were words and pictures and music."

"And what were those words, Max? Tell me, what _pictures_ did you see?"

She spoke in hushed, urgent tones. Max felt his neck begin to itch; he paused to look at her closely.

Her face was round and strangely taut. Although her smile stayed fixed, her pupils began to dilate. Max was fascinated by them as they grew. They reminded him of a polar bear he had once seen at the zoo. He had never forgotten the way its flat, black eyes had followed him hungrily from across the protective barrier.

Max blinked in alarm.

There was no barrier here.

"I have to go to the bathroom," he muttered.

"Yes, yes, certainly. But first, tell me what you saw in the tapestry!"

"Maybe we should talk when my dad gets home."

Mrs. Millen's eyes widened with surprise. The chair creaked under her shifting weight, and she sniffed suddenly as though she had a cold. Several long seconds passed as they studied each other. Then a sly smile crept across her face as though they had just shared a secret.

"Hoo-hoo-hoo!" she chuckled. "You _are_ a cautious one, Max! You are on cautious, bright little boy! You just might be the one we want."

Sweat brokek out on Max's forehead; his throat itched. He glanced at her cane, realizing he could run. No one had ever been able to catch him when he ran, and Mrs. Millen was old.

"I think you should go now," he said. "I'm not feeling well."

"Of course, my dear…"

The woman pushed back from the table.

"…_but you're coming with me!_"

The smile never left her lips as her hand shot across the table to seize Max's wrist. Max yelped and shot backward, squirming painfully out of her astonishingly strong grasp and falling off his chair. At the same time, Max heard something crash upstairs in his room. Heavy footsteps were coming down the stairs.

Someone else was in the house.

Max scrambled to his feet and bolted for the back door. With a dreadful shock, he realized that the woman needed no cane as she rounded the table and raced after him.

Fleeing into the backyard, Max made for the big pine fort. He fumbled at the rusted latch, pushing the door open and hurrying inside. He tried to slam the door shut just as Mrs. Millen crouched to barrel in after him—but she managed to wedge her arm inside, twisting it wildly about.

Max gave the door a great push with his shoulder, and Mrs. Millen shrieked and withdrew her arm. He slammed the door shut and slid its crossbeam into place.

Leaning his back against the door, he waited.

"Hoo-hoo-hoo!" she cackled. "Not so wise and cautious after all! Our little one was quick, but he had made a poor choice, indeed…."

Max heard her nails dragging along the fort's walls as she slowly circled its perimeter. She paused to tap at its narrow windows. Max gulped down his fear and tried to think. He could yell for help, but his house was at the end of a quiet street, and his neighbors worked during the day. As he heard her near the fort's back wall, Max decided to make a run for it.

Just as he reached for the crossbeam, however, it dissolved into a pile of gray ash.

"Hoo-hoo-hoo!"

The door flew open, and Mrs. Millen snatched the front of Max's shirt. He gave a yell and jammed the heel of his hand into her nose. She cursed and recoiled, losing her grip on him. Backpedaling furiously, Max slammed into the opposite wall and started scrambling up the small ladder that led to the fort's roof. Max heard her muttering a few feet below him as he climbed. When he glanced down, he saw that she was standing on the lowest rung. Her ringed fingers clawed for his ankle.

"Stop right there, Max! _Astaroth!_"

At that moment, Max felt an icy numbness in his right leg. Straining, he climbed up and through the hatch and waited a moment, slamming the door down hard on the woman's head as she scrabbled up after him. His leg was almost completely numb; Max dragged himself toward the roof's edge. Glancing back, he saw Mrs. Millen emerge through the hatch. Squeezing her bulk through, she crawled after him on all fours like an animal.

Max shut his eyes and rolled over the edge.

He fell with a hard, wheezing thud onto the lawn. Stunned, he opened his eyes to see her peering down at him from the fort's roof ten feet above.

"Don't you touch him," she panted, glaring in the direction of the house. "This little scrapper's mine!"

Max wildly scanned the house and yard but saw no one else. Then he realized Mrs. Millen's head had vanished. He heard the trapdoor clatter shut as she began her descent.

Moaning, Max struggled to his feet. His leg threatened to collapse beneath him as he rounded the side of the house, but he managed to limp up the driveway toward the street. Turning, he saw Mrs. Millen galloping after him.

Rounding the corner to the front yard, Max collided with a man, who let out a groan and dropped his briefcase. Max screamed, shut his eyes, and began fiercely pummeling him.

"Hey there! Ouch! Stop hitting me!" the man exclaimed, taking firm hold of Max's arms. Max whipped around, expecting Mrs. Millen to come barreling around the house. She did not.

"Are you all right, my boy?" the man asked in a subdued British accent.

Max felt the grip on his arms relax. He turned and looked up at the person before him. It was not the white-eyed stranger from the museum. Tall and impeccably dressed in a navy suit, this man had sandy hair, a high forehead, and wire glasses. He gave a nervous smile and eyed Max's hard, trembling fists.

"Was she talking to you?" Max demanded.

"Excuse me—_who?_"

Max collapsed before he could find the words.

Max awoke with a start. He was on the couch in the den, his leg no longer numb but tingling as though it had been asleep. Looking down, he saw his shoes had been removed and paired neatly on the floor. He could hear a pleasant whistling approaching from down the hallway. Max had barely managed to sit up when the man with the wire glasses entered the room carrying a plate of cookies and a mug of steaming cocoa.

"Hello, Max! I hope you're feeling a bit better," the man said cheerfully, placing the plate and mug on the coffee table. "My name is Nigel Bristow, and I'm terribly sorry to have given you such a shock. I hope you don't mind that I rummaged around your kitchen a bit. You should have a biscuit. They always work wonders for me."

Max felt too drained to be afraid or to protest. He reached for a cookie, keeping his eyes on Nigel as the man settled into his father's leather chair. Max nibbled the cookie.

"It wasn't you that scared me," he mumbled. "I was being chased."

Nigel's smile straightened into a tight line; his eyes glittered seriously.

"What exactly do you mean, Max? Who was chasing you?"

"I got a letter…a letter that said I was going to receive a visitor. She came to the house today and…" Max broke off as tears welled into his eyes. He flung his arm over his face, mortified to be in such a state in front of anyone, much less a stranger.

"I see." Nigel's voice was calm and sympathetic. "Max, I want to help you. Do you think you can share what happened with me?"

Max nodded and took a deep breath before telling Nigel the story of Mrs. Millen's visit.

When Max was finished, Nigel scooted his chair forward and patted him on the shoulder.

"It's all right, my boy. I want you to stay right here. Based on what you've told me, I need to attend to a few things. I won't be far away."

Nigel unfolded a nearby quilt and draped it over Max before handing him the mug of chocolate. Murmuring words in an unfamiliar language, Nigel left the room, tapping doorways and windows as he went.

To Max's relief, the numbness in his leg faded with every sip of cocoa. He wriggled his feet for good measure. Then, hearing Nigel's footsteps creaking upstairs, Max realized that he was expected at the Raleighs' house for dinner. Nigel returned just as Max was reaching for the phone.

"I'm not here to hurt you, Max. There's no need to call the police."

"I'm not—I know you're not here to hurt me. I'm calling my dad's friends. He's out of town and I'm supposed to stay with them tonight."

"I see. Max, I think it would be unwise for you to leave my company this evening. If you like, I can handle the arrangements."

"Who are you?" Max asked, sitting forward.

"I am a Recruiter," Nigel said, standing to inspect a photograph on a bookshelf. "I am the visitor that you were _intended_ to receive. I am only sorry I did not arrive earlier."

"Then who was that woman, Mrs. Millen? I thought she was going to kill me."

Nigel frowned. "I do not yet know who _she_ was or how she came to know who _you_ are. This is no small matter, and I have already informed my colleagues. I'm no great terrifying Mystic, but my presence should deter any trespassers until our specialists arrive."

Max was not sure he wanted any more visitors.

"Now," said Nigel. "Let's fix another cup and I'll see if I can explain everything."

The two of them wandered into the kitchen. Max heated the kettle while Nigel hummed pleasantly and rummaged about for more cookies. Reaching into the cupboard, he pulled out a box of Bedford Bros. Crispy Soup Wafers.

"Are these any good?"

"According to my dad, they'll save civilization," muttered Max, looking down to rub the remaining numbness from his leg. A moment later, he heard a loud crunch.

"Well, I don't know about saving civilization," Nigel crowed, but they're rather tasty!"

The Recruiter scooped up a handful of snacks and headed for the living room. It was getting dark outside; thunder rumbled in the distance. Max brought two mugs of cocoa from the kitchen and found Nigel standing before the fireplace.

"Seems we've got a storm heading our way. Let's cheer things up a bit!"

Nigel's fingers danced as though manipulating a marionette. The cold logs in the hearth suddenly hissed and popped. Yellow flames flicked along the edges. Within seconds, a bright fire was crackling merrily.

"There we go!" Nigel clapped. "A storm on the way, fuel on the fire, and a sip of chocolate to soothe the soul! Come on over here, Max."

Max gaped at the fire.

"But how did you…?"

"All in due time," said Nigel, spreading the quilt on the hardwood floor so the two could sit down. "Now, Max, before we begin I need you to promise you won't tell Mum and Bob that I ate so many of these whatchacallums."

"Um…okay," said Max, confused.

"Excellent!" Nigel stuffed a pair of Bedford wafers into his mouth. "These recruiting trips are the only chance I get to sneak a bit of decent comfort food!" He smacked the crumbs from his hand before continuing.

"Max, as frustrating as it might be to hold off on your questions, I'd like you to begin by sharing a bit of yesterday's experience with me."

As the fire crackled and the storm approached, Max recounted the previous day to Nigel. Unlike Mrs. Millen, however, Nigel simply listened and did not press for details as Max spoke.

"I don't know what it all means," said Max when he brought his tale to a close.

"Ah, it seems someone needs an introduction to Celtic mythology! That's a most unusual vision, Max, involving the Cattle Raid of Cooley. It speaks very highly of your capabilities as a Potential."

"What _is_ a Potential? That word was used that way in the letter I received."

"Why, Max,_ you_ are a Potential, and that is why I'm here! You are one of a handful of people on our wondrous little planet with the _potential_ to become one of us. When you found that room and discovered that tapestry, we were made aware of you. I'm here to see if you have enough of that special something to merit making you an offer."

"Who is 'we'? An offer for what?"

"All in due time, all in due time. First I need to administer a few tests."

Rain pattered on the windowpanes. Max thought he saw a shadow dart across one of the windows.

"Somebody's out there!"

Nigel smiled.

"It's quite natural to be a bit jumpy. But we are quite safe. This house is being watched by friendly eyes."

Max shivered, uncertain if he wanted to be watch by anything, friendly or not.

"What happens if I fail?"

"Then I clean up the kitchen and go on my merry way, happy to have made your remarkable acquaintance. Within a few days, you'll have forgotten all about me and this afternoon's unpleasantness. You won't remember a thing."

"But—"

"I know what you're thinking, but don't worry. I've placed this house under priority watch. Given what's happened, it will continue to be under surveillance for some time—even if the tests elude you. There may well be more than one Agent standing guard outside this house, Max."

It was clear that Nigel thought that this explanation was weighty and sufficient. It was not. Max went to look out the window.

"You won't see and Agent," Nigel said as Max peered out the curtains. "Even I might not see them. That's part of an Agent's job—to be as slippery as smoke."

Max frowned and closed the curtains; the storm was now directly overhead.

Nigel stood and motioned for Max to follow him back into the kitchen.

The Recruiter set his briefcase on the kitchen table. Opening the clasps, Nigel reached in the case and removed a digital voice recorder and what appeared to be a large silver tennis racket without any strings. Max could not see how the racket had ever fit within the slender case.

"Come over here, Max—we may as well get started. If you don't mind, hop up on the counter there and forgive me for the formalities." Nigel activated the recorder and leaned against a cupboard.

"Senior Recruiter Nigel Bristow initiating Standard Series of Potential Tests on Mr. Max McDaniels, age twelve, of Chicago, Illinois, United States of America."

Holding the recorder toward Max, Nigel continued to speak in a clipped monotone.

"Mr. McDaniels, please indicate that you have been fully briefed and agree to participate in the following trials with full knowledge that they are highly experimental and likely to result in severe disfigurement…."

"Hey! Wait a minute!" shrieked Max, jumping off the counter.

Nigel chortled. "Just a bit of humor. Couldn't help myself." He waved Max back up onto the counter. "All right, then. First test to be administered: physical aptitude. May you've been to the doctor before, haven't you? Well, this is similar to when he taps your knee with a rubber mallet. Only instead of a mallet, I'm going to hold this little contraption. It can't hurt you, I promise."

Max watched Nigel adjust a number of tiny dials on the handle. A small screen flickered on, and a ring of white light appeared within the empty oval head. The contraption began to whine.

Max squirmed.

"Nigel, are you sure that thing is perfectly safe? It doesn't _sound_ safe!"

"Perfectly safe, perfectly safe," muttered Nigel, carefully guiding the contraption around Max's dangling foot and up toward his knee. "Now, in a moment you're going to feel a bit of a shock—nothing painful, but it will make you want to kick your leg out. I want you to resist that temptation and keep your knee within the boundaries._ Do not touch the device!_ Ready…and begin."

The machine's whine rose to a fevered pitch, and Max felt a sudden jolt to his knee. He shut his eyes and focused all of his will on controlling the powerful impulse to kick. Sweat beaded on his face and trickled down his back. Glancing down, he saw his knee moving in a blur of tiny circles that approached but never touched the instrument. Finally, the machine's pitch descended to a steady hum before slowing to a halt. Nigel studied that device's screen and reached for his recorder.

"Lactic production rate: eighty-two. Lactic dispersion rate: eighty four. Twitch speed: ninety-five. Muscular density, current: sixty-four. Muscular density, projected: eighty-seven. Synaptic bypass: eighty-four. Mental stress fatigue: fifty-two."

Nigel frowned as he read the last number.

"Hmmm. Stress fatigue's surprisingly low. Score is likely result of subject exhaustion following preemptive Enemy intercept. Recruiter recommends retesting at later date if applicable."

Brightening, he looked up at Max, who was mopping his brow. Nigel switched off the recorder.

"Good show, my boy! Acceptable ratings across the board _and_ you managed to keep from hitting the device. You're a talented devil. I've only been recruiting for seven years, but I've never tested anyone who registered a ninety-five for twitch speed. Never even heard of it, actually,"

"What do those numbers mean?" Max asked.

"Oh, a lot of hogwash, really," replied Nigel, seemingly distracted as he switched off the contraption. "They're supposed to give us an understanding of your physical capabilities and, more importantly, your ability to control your actions in a stressful environment. I'm sure someone will explain all the numbers to you later if you're really interested."

Max glanced at the strange, silvery instrument.

"Is that thing _magical_?"

"Magical? Heavens, no! In fact, don't let any of the Device people hear you say that! They take a lot of pride—too much, if you ask me—in making all kinds of useful _non-mystic_ things. I'm just happy this new model works. The last one was—"

He coughed and glanced at Max, who raised his eyebrows.

"Well, needless to say, it wasn't as _reliable_ as this model. This one, however, is a peach!"

Nigel patted the device affectionately before letting it slip from his fingers into his case. It fell in without making an appreciable sound or dent within the smooth calfskin sides. Plucking up the recorder, he beckoned Max back into the living room.

"Right. One test down, and possibly two to go. Now, I'd like you to stand across the room and face the fireplace."

With a sweep of his arm, Nigel extinguished the lamps. The fire was now the room's only source of light.

"Wow," said Max.

Nigel smiled and placed several more logs in the hearth. Firelight danced on the walls. Max waited nervously, his eyes adjusting to the darkened room. The fire burned much brighter when Nigel finally stood and turned to him.

"Max, the first test was not so unusual—bit of an elaborate physical. This next test will be a bit strange for you. I'm going to ask you to try something that you don't currently believe you can do. I want you to extinguish this fire from where you stand."

"Are you kidding?" said Max, shaking his head and laughing with disbelief.

"You have what it takes to do this, Max. Relax your mind. Imagine this fire ebbing to a low flame, then to a trickle of smoke, and finally to a cold hearth. Begin now."

Max's eyes followed the brilliant oranges and yellows that writhed about the logs. He heard the wood crackling. Then, it all slowed down to a crawl and he saw and heard everything. Max closed his eyes and squeezed his hand into a fist, imagining the flames disappearing and leaving a cold hearth. When he opened his eyes, there was no flame and he felt alive as time returned to normal.

Glancing at Nigel, he saw the Recruiter looking back and forth between the stopwatch and the hearth disbelievingly with his mouth hanging open and his eyes as big as saucers.

Walking over to the logs, Nigel picked up a log and stared at it in wonderment.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Nigel swept his arm up and restored the lights. "Bravo, Max. Well done, indeed."

Nigel tipped an imaginary cap as he activated the recorder.

"Test two completed. Subject extinguished a confined stage two fire from a distance of seven paces. Subject successfully eliminated flames and further sapped residual heat from logs. Test completed in—"and here Nigel paused, shaking his head in disbelief before continuing, "zero point seven seconds."

Max's eyes expanded in disbelief.

"Well, Max, the modern record _was_ under five seconds by our own Miss Hazel Boon, but I guess that's out the window now. Your score was well above average."

Max breathed out heavily at the thought that he had done so well.

"So, what's next?"

"Oh, the last test isn't so bad—you've already had the biggies! It's just a bit of a puzzle. I've got it in my case in the kit—"

Before Nigel could finish his sentence, there was a deafening boom of thunder and the house went black. Squinting in the dark, Max saw Nigel sprawled on the floor. The back door had been smashed to pieces. To Max's horror, Mrs. Millen eyed them from the kitchen.

Her hair was matted from the rain; her makeup was smeared into dark streaks on her fleshy face. She shambled toward them, bent and furious. Her cane smacked the floor at rapid and regular beats.

"Hoo-hoo-hoo! Thought I'd just gone away? Thought your friend's little charms could keep me out?"

Max started to scream but no sound emerged. At his feet, Nigel moaned and struggled to stand, but his arms buckled beneath him and he collapsed back to the ground.

"Better run, Max!" Mrs. Millen warned. "Better run while you can! Leave that scrawny thing to me and I'll let you go!"

She was just ten feet away when Max finally bolted.

He wrenched the front door open to the summer rain. Whipping around, he saw Mrs. Millen chuckling and crouching low over Nigel, whose foot thumped dully against the floor boards.

A blind rage came over Max. "Get away from him! _Get away from him!_" He dashed back into the living room only to see Nigel sitting, comfortable and composed, by the rekindled fire. Max stalked down the hall, adrenaline now racing through his body. There was no sign of Mrs. Millen. The kitchen door was whole, solid and secure on its hinges.

Nigel smiled and spoke softly into his recorder. "Test three complete. After a brief moment of initial hesitation and retreat, Mr. McDaniels responded to phantasm with a frontal assault, exhibiting extraordinary determination and—oh dear, how should I put this—ferocity! Given that phantasm was generated from a mind cache recently exposed to the Enemy, this is particularly remarkable. It is with great pride and personal satisfaction that this Recruiter may report that Mr. Max McDaniels has passed the Standard Series of Potential Tests."

Max stared in disbelief at Nigel. "So that was all just a…_t__est_?"

"Yes, I am sorry about that," said Nigel with a sigh. It's the only way we know of to test a Potential's courage and loyalty. Unfortunately, it's the test most Potentials ultimately fail, but we've refused to compromise our standards. You were willing to help me at great danger to your person, my boy, and I am indeed touched."

Nigel smiled and rose to place a hand on Max's shoulder.

Max glanced at the hand. He let it slip off his shoulder as he walked wearily toward the kitchen. Nigel followed.

"Don't be too angry with me!" he pleaded. "It's not so easy being on my side of it, either—what with all the screaming, the crying, the irretrievably soiled pants…"

"I'm not mad anymore," sighed Max. Just promise that you won't conjure up Mrs. Millen again. I don't think I could handle her three times in one day."

"It's a deal," chuckled Nigel. "Now, let's see if we can't find some more of those Crispy Sons Snack—_whatever_ you call them."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

**The Time To Choose**

Max awoke earlier than usual as Nigel's whistling and the smell of coffee wafted upstairs. It was light outside; sprinklers were hard at work. He yawned and rolled out of bed, throwing on a T-shirt and shuffling down the stairs.

Nigel was seated at the dining-room table, already dressed in a suit and tie. He perused the _Tribune_ and sipped at a mug of coffee. Steam rose from a covered basket arranged on the table along with a crock of butter, several types of jam, and a glass of juice.

"And the sleepyhead emerges from his burrow! Can't say I blame you, though—you had quite a day yesterday."

"Nigel, it's six fifteen in the morning…."

"Exactly. Time to rise and shine! I've got to be on my way shortly, so I thought we'd first enjoy a proper breakfast. Max, have you ever had popovers?"

Nigel peeled back the basket's cover to reveal a dozen what looked like steaming hot biscuits.

"Are they anything like Pop-Tarts?" asked Max.

"I should say _not_," said Nigel with a shudder. "My wife's would shame these sorry creations, but I still think you're in for a treat! Here's to new discoveries!"

Max raised his glass, then spent the next several minutes attacking the hot, flaky popovers.

"Mneez uhn illy guuh!" he said at last.

Nigel looked up from his paper.

"Come again?"

"These are really good!" Max repeated, reaching for another.

"Are you admitting they compare favorably to the almighty Pop-Tart? I believe that's four you've managed already…."

Max narrowed his eyes.

"Yes, well, now that we've fed the monster, perhaps we should give him a present."

Max wiped his mouth as Nigel presented him with an envelope of the same heavy cream-colored paper as the mysterious letter that had appeared in his pocket. This envelope was larger, but it, too, had Max's name scripted on the front. Max slid his hand under the sealing wax and opened the flap to remove a sheaf of papers and a glossy brochure.

"Save the brochure for later," said Nigel. "Have a peek at the rest."

Max turned the papers over and scanned the cover page.

Dear Mr. McDaniels,

It is our understanding that you passed the Standard Series of Tests for Potentials. As Mr. Bristow no doubt informed you, this is a tremendous achievement. On behalf of Rowan Academy, please allow me to extend our most sincere congratulations.

Based on your results, Rowan Academy hereby extends you an offer to join our organization as an Apprentice, First Year.

We are hopeful that you will begin the full term at the new student orientation one week from today. Details are enclosed, and we trust you will find the attached scholarship offer attractive.

A representative will visit you and your father this evening to discuss this unique opportunity and, we hope, celebrate your decision to accept. Given the unusual circumstances of your initial contact, we have taken additional precautions. You can rest assured that Miss Awolowo is indeed a legitimate representative. She will arrive at precisely eight o'clock.

Warmest regards,

Gabrielle Richter

Executive Director

"Who is she?" asked Max. "She signed my first letter."

"Ms. Richter? Oh, well she's the boss, for lack of a better term. Quite a lady, I might add."

"Oh. And the academy—what's that?"

"Hmmm. Well, I might not be the best person to explain it to you. That falls under Miss Awolowo's responsibilities. I can say, however, that it is an extraordinary place for extraordinary people just like you, Max."

"I don't understand. Would I have to go away?"

"Well, yes. The academy is located in New England."

Max put the letter down and shook his head.

"Forget it—I can't just leave. Not after everything that's happened."

"I understand your feelings, Max—" Nigel began.

"No you don't. My dad would be all alone without me."

Nigel closed his eyes and nodded.

"My mom's been gone two years," Max blurted suddenly, his face growing hot. "My dad talks about her like she's alive, but she isn't. They never even found her."

"Do you want to talk about it?" asked Nigel quietly, wiping up some crumbs and refilling Max's juice.

"There isn't much to talk about," Max said. He felt tired again. "They found her car on the side of the road. It was still running. She was gone."

Max glowered and flicked a crumb off the table.

"Anyway," he mumbled, "I don't think moving away is a good idea."

"I see." Nigel pushed the popovers back in his direction. "I won't try to convince you, Max. All I'll ask is that you keep an open mind and listen to what Miss Awolowo has to say. In the meantime, I would encourage you to study the materials in your packet."

Nigel straightened the papers and brochure, handing them to Max before rising with his briefcase.

"I realize the timing is dreadful, but I must be going. Yesterday's events have raised questions that need answers, and I've been ordered away. Don't worry about your father and the Raleighs—I've taken care of everything."

Max was incredulous.

"Nigel! You can't leave me here by myself. My dad doesn't get back until this afternoon? What if Mrs. Millen comes back?"

"Max, this house is under priority watch. You should be just fine."

Max stood up from the table and began pacing the room.

"No, no, no! You said Mrs. Millen _shouldn't_ have known I was a Potential and shown up here to begin with! Can't I come with you?"

"I'm afraid that's impossible, Max. However, I do think I can procure some company so that you're not alone."

Max paused.

"An Agent?"

Nigel shook his head. "No, not an Agent. They're under strict orders to stand guard outside. You wouldn't like their company anyway—too serious!"

Nigel placed his briefcase on the table.

"This may take a minute, depending on whether she's within call."

The Recruiter unfastened the case's clasps and buried his entire head within it. Max heard his muffled voice cooing.

"There's my girl. Oh, you're getting so big and gorgeous! No, no, I don't think you look fat. Don't tell Mrs. Bristow, but I think you're holding your shape quite nicely! Oh, well, thank you very much, indeed! Don't mean to sound immodest, but I _have_ been trying to train up a bit."

Nigel pinched his rather flimsy biceps while his head remained in the case.

"Yes, well, I've got a little favor to ask. Would you mind looking after a friend for a few hours? You wouldn't? Bless you, my dear—he will be most relieved."

Max took a step back as Nigel thrust his arms into the case and strained forward to hoist something out of the bag. He withdrew and turned, cradling a pink piglet as if she were a newborn.

Max rubbed his temples and shook his head. "You've got to be kidding me."

The piglet sniffed the air and focused her drowsy eyes on Max. She blinked several times and promptly burrowed her snout into Nigel's armpit.

"Max, I'd like you to meet Lucy!" said Nigel cheerfully.

Max's voice was steady and measured.

"Nigel, you are not leaving me in the care of a _pig_."

Nigel smiled. "I'm _not_ leaving you in her care; I'm leaving you in her company. You should consider yourself lucky—Lucy's the best company there is!"

Lucy wriggled to gaze lovingly up at Nigel, releasing a wheezing burst of gas in the process.

"But….!"

Nigel ignored Max and gently lowered Lucy to the floor. She trotted toward the kitchen, snorting happily.

"She's a snap, really—just let her have a bit, or three, of whatever you're eating. When your dad gets home, slip her out the back door and she'll find me."

Defeated, Max looked at the floor and nodded. Something fell in the kitchen. He turned to see Lucy perched precariously on a chair, nosing through the leftover batter.

"Well," said Nigel with a glance at his watch. "I am now running quite late and really must be on my way. I know it's all been a whirl, but don't let it get the best of you. Things will sort themselves out sooner than you think! It's been my pleasure."

Nigel smiled and extended his hand.

"Will I see you again?" Max asked.

"I'd like to think so—I certainly hope to see you at your orientation!" He smiled and patted Max firmly on the shoulder. "I hope you'll join the new class, Max. I think Rowan's just the place for you."  
A moment later, Nigel had gone. Max watched him walk briskly down the street, briefcase in hand, before he turned off Max's street. Feeling very alone, Max locked the door and gathered up the plates and glasses. On his way to the kitchen, he passed Lucy, who trotted past him into the den. Stepping over the rather large mess she'd made, Max sighed and piled the dishes in the sink. He left Lucy in the den, where she seemed content to snort and roll.

Max was vaguely aware that the Chicago Cubs were losing to the San Francisco Giants when he heard the front door open. Bolting upright in his father's chair, he switched off the radio and skidded to the back door clutching Lucy, who had been curled up on his lap. The piglet shook herself awake with a series of startled grunts.

Setting her down outside, Max scratched her ears and whispered, "Thanks for staying with me, Lucy. Sorry I doubted you. Can you find Nigel?"

Lucy nuzzled his leg and, with a jaunty turn, trotted out into the yard, disappearing behind the fort. Locking the door, Max padded barefoot to the front hall, where his father had just let his bag thump to the floor.

"Hey, Max. How were the Raleighs?"

"Er, fine," Ma said, avoiding his father's eyes. "I'm glad you're home, though."

"Yeah, well, so am I. Had a chance to cool off a bit in KC, and I think we'll ground you for one week rather than two. Cooped up for two weeks is too much during the summer. Sound fair?"

"Sure," Max said. "Um, Dad, we're going to have someone coming by the house tonight to talk with us."

"Who's that? You're not in trouble, are you?"

"No, nothing like that. I won some kind of scholarship."

Scott McDaniels glanced from the mail to Max. "Really? A scholarship? What kind of scholarship?"

"I don't know exactly, but they're offering me full tuition at some school."

"What school?" asked his father, giving an inquisitive smile.

"Rowan Academy—in New England."

Mr. McDaniels's smile vanished. "New England? That's hundreds of miles away, Max. How did you win this scholarship?"

Max began fidgeting.

"Um, I guess I did well on some tests and, uh, they found me."

"And who is this person coming tonight?"

"Someone named Miss Awolowo."

"Humph," his father snorted. "That's a mouthful. We'll see what Miss Aloha has to say."

The two made turkey sandwiches and took turns dipping into a colossal tin of potato chips. Mr. McDaniels regaled Max with stories about a new paper towel that offered astonishing absorbency.

Miss Awolowo arrived precisely at eight o'clock. Towering to nearly Mr. McDaniels's height she was an elegant woman whose age Max found impossible to estimate. She wore multicolored robes, a necklace of heavy beads, and carried a woven bag decorated with flying birds. She placed the bag on the step and extended her hand. Her skin was as smooth and dark as coffee bean, her voice rich and tinged with an accent.

"You must be Mr. McDaniels. I am Ndidi Awolowo from Rowan Academy. It is my very great privilege to meet you."

Scott McDaniels paused somewhat awkwardly before concluding the handshake.

"Yes, of course. Very nice to meet you, too. Please come in."

"Thank you," said Miss Awolowo, sweeping past him into the foyer, where Max lingered nervously.

"Hello there—you must be Max! I'm Miss Awolowo."

Max took her hand and felt his apprehension wash away. As with Nigel, there was a reassuring strength and warmth to this woman. She placed a hand on his shoulder, and he led her into the living room, where Mr. McDaniels fumbled with coffee and a tray of sugar cookies. Settling at one end of the couch, she directed her bright eyes alternatively between Max and his father.

"You have a beautiful home, Mr. McDaniels, and an extraordinary son. I must apologize for visiting on such short notice; we only recently received Max's results. Have you had an opportunity to review the scholarship we would like to offer him?"

"Yes, and we sure do appreciate that, Miss Ahoolaloo." Max squirmed as his father adopted the tone of voice he used with clients. "That letter got us tickled pink, but I think we're going to have to take a pass. Max's been through a lot the past few years, and I think it's best if he stays close to home."

Miss Awolowo nodded soberly and paused before replying.

"Yes, please forgive me for being direct, but I am aware of the situation with Mrs. McDaniels. I am sorry."

"Er, yes. Yes, it's been difficult for us, but we're managing."

"Of course you are. You're doing a wonderful job, Mr. McDaniels. You've raised a fine boy under very trying circumstances. I do hope, however, that you will not permit a tragedy in your son's past to obstruct a wonderful opportunity in his future."

"I only want the best for Max," said his father defensively.

"I know you do," she said soothingly. "That is precisely what we offer. Our program is better suited to serve your son than a mainstream curriculum. You see, Mr. McDaniels, a boy with Max's aptitude and creativity cannot flourish in a program that does not recognize and develop his unique skills."

"How does your academy manage to do better?"

"By placing Max among other gifted, creative students from all around the world. By providing him with teachers who understand his gifts and are capable of developing them to their potential."

"Did you attend Rowan?"

"Yes, I did, Mr. McDaniels. I was visited by a Recruiter in my village in Africa." She clapped her hands together and gave a girlish laugh. "Ah, it seems like ages ago. My parents did not want to let their baby go; they were afraid of all that might go wrong! But, after a quiet time, my father came to me and said, 'If a man does not stand for something, he will fall for anything. I want to stand _for you_.'"

Her eyes glistened and she smiled at the memory. Mr. McDaniels stared at his knobby fingers. His voice was tight when he next spoke.

"I don't know what to do here. It sounds like a good opportunity, but I just don't know if Max is ready for something like this. Max, how do you feel?"

To this point, Max had been happy to be a bystander. Now, with their attention focused on him, he became very nervous.

"I don't know. I don't want to leave you alone."

"Don't worry about me, Max. I'm a big boy."

After an awkward silence, Miss Awolowo spoke.

"Mr. McDaniels? Would it be all right if I spoke to Max one on one?"

"Max? Would you like that?"

Max glanced at Miss Awolowo, who waited patiently.

"It's a beautiful summer evening, Max. Why don't we walk around the block and get a breath of fresh air?"

Max looked at his father, who nodded his approval.

Miss Awolowo took Max's arm as they walked down the front steps. The night sky was very clear. They walked without speaking, passing quietly under the streetlamp. Giving his arm a soft pat, Miss Awolowo broke the silence.

"Nigel sends his best. You made quite an impression on him—he speaks very highly of you. You have our deepest apologies for that woman's unfortunate visit."

Max shuddered and focused his eyes on the dark hedges and lawns all around them. Miss Awolowo drew him nearer and hummed a low, pretty tune.

"You have no need to fear, Max. The Enemy is aware of me and knows that I am no trifle. Old Awolowo can be fierce!" She flashed her eyes wide, chuckled, and gave his arm a playful squeeze. Max smiled and tried to relax.

"Miss Awolowo? Who is the Enemy? Nigel wouldn't answer my questions."

"Yes, well, that's not his job to answer questions of that sort. Will you come with me? I want to show you something."

Max nodded. Miss Awolowo straightened to her full height and looked down upon him. Her eyes shone silver, and to Max she appeared as wise and beautiful as all the queens in his old storybooks put together. She smiled and took his hand.

Max's insides squirmed like they had when he saw the tapestry. Only this time it didn't feel like he'd swallowed bees; helium balloons now filled his stomach. His feet tingled as though he'd stepped into a bath that was too hot. When Max looked down to investigate, he gasped.

The sidewalk was shrinking.

Miss Awolowo held his hand tightly as they rose slowly above the streetlamps and dark clumps of trees. They drifted together on the night breeze, leaving houses and parks in their wake as they glided over the treetops and chimneys. They skimmed out over the lake and rose in gentle spirals.

They soared so high, Max thought they might catch the moon. He laughed and reached out to touch it. He couldn't reach it, though. It continued to hover above them, bright and distant and cold.

"We live in a beautiful world, don't we?"

Miss Awolowo's words shook Max out of his reverie. It had all seemed utterly like a dream until he realized with sudden terror that he was indeed high above the lake with the wind whipping fiercely about him.

Miss Awolowo was serene. "Let's find a more comfortable perch, shall we?"

Max nodded enthusiastically.

With a wide, lazy turn, she guided them toward the Baha'I temple that jutted against the night sky like a massive block of carved ivory. She set them down on its dome, many stories above the trees. They sat side by side, and Miss Awolowo smoothed her robes and clasped her hands together.

"There! That's better." Running her hand over the intricate stonework about them, she declared, "I _do _love this building. Anyway, are you a bit warmer, my dear?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Now take a look up at the sky. What do you see?"

"I don't know," Max said. "Stars. The moon."

"You also see a great deal of darkness, don't you? Max, this is our struggle. There is a force in this world that does not love the moon, stars, or sun. It doesn't care for the lights of cities, the joys of laughter, or even the sounds of grief. It doesn't care for _anything_ that causes a ripple in the perfect black stillness whence it came. It would devour that moon if it could."

Max shivered and watched an elderly couple strolling in the gardens far below. Miss Awolowo continued.

"It can't devour the moon, so it seeks to devour man instead. For thousands of years, people have fought against this Enemy in all its many forms. People like you and me."

Max looked hard at her. Miss Awolowo nodded and touched two fingers to his forehead.

"Yes, Max—people like _you_. You were born a prince, a prince of humankind. For centuries, gifted people have developed their abilities to ensure man can continue to grow and create beautiful things like this very building. Without us, mankind would have perished long ago. Ours is an ancient struggle for survival."

"And you want me to join this…struggle?"

Miss Awolowo smiled and placed her head on Max's head.

"Nigel said you are a brave boy. But you're far too young to make such a choice. Only Rowan's graduates are asked to make that decision, and some elect to do other things. All I want you to do is to give us a try and see if you like it."

Max frowned. "What if I decide not to go? Would you be angry?"

Miss Awolowo sat quietly for several moments. Her response was measured.

"I would be disappointed, but certainly not angry. I won't lie to you, however. My desire for you to come to Rowan is very strong. Nigel's report strongly suggests that the Old Magic might be in you, that you might be a prince even among our kind. Putting out that fire in 0.7 seconds was, well, to say the least, remarkable. All your results suggest the Old Magic is in you. In person, I can see it might be so. The little light within you burns so bright it warms even old Awolowo!"

Her beaded necklace shook with her laughter.

"Yes, Max, that light is very bright indeed. I am only sorry that others have seen it, too. Given what's happened, I think Rowan would be a safer place for you. The Enemy would not be able to get to you there. You would likely not see Mrs. Mullen or any of the Enemy for quite some time. Your father would be safe. Once you were at school, your father would be quite safe. The Enemy will not bother him as long as you are at school. Of course, whether you decide to go or not, your house will be kept under surveillance for quite some time, to ensure your safety, of course. I truly believe that Rowan is right for you. But I am here only to offer opportunities—you will get no judgments or false choices from me. The decision is yours alone, and it is an important one."

Max hugged his knees, listening carefully. "Would I learn how to protect myself, and my father?" "Yes, of course." He nodded his head silently and looked out at the night sky again, thinking of the opportunity he would have to be a part of the effort to ensure the continued growth of mankind.

Looking down at the beautiful building beneath them, he thought about what would have happen to it if the Enemy won. If they snuffed out mankind's light. The building would be destroyed. There would be no more beautiful buildings, no more home, no more summers of having fun, no more of…anything. All of it would be gone. He would be gone. That realization hit him like a blow to the gut. Looking at Mrs. Awolowo, he wondered if she had ever had the same thoughts.

Now he knew what his decision would be. There was not a doubt in his mind. It had been made up. Nothing was going to deter him from his course.

Taking a deep breath, Max swiveled from Miss Awolwo and followed the path of a plane far away over the moonlit lake. Its signal light blinked at steady intervals against the deep blue sky. When he turned back to her, his face was set and fierce, his eyes unblinking, his voice unwavering.

"I want to go."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

**The Flight To Rowan**

The night before he left for Rowan, Max had an extraordinary dream. He was walking across an open field at dusk, tossing a ball high ahead of him and running forward to catch it. The wind was brisk and the moon was rising as he came to a path that led to a distant house with lighted windows.

Suddenly, something large darted from a nearby hedge and loped onto the path in front of him. It was an enormous wolfhound. It paused and glowered at him.

Max froze. The animal's heavy face began to flicker and shift—momentarily adopting the unmistakable features of Mrs. Millen, Nigel, Miss Awolowo, and the strange man from the train. The hound padded toward Max, a murderous rumble emanating from its throat as its face became his father's.

Max could not move. The hound reared up on its hind legs and placed paws the size of baseball mitts on Max's shoulders. It looked down at him, its breath a series of hot blasts. Growling, it pressed its forehead hard against his and spoke to him:

_"What are you about? Answer quick or I'll gobble you up!"_

When Max opened his eyes, he saw his father sitting at the foot of his bed. He was smiling, but he looked older and tired. Deep circles lined his eyes.

"You sleep just like you did as a little boy."

Max blinked and propped himself up on his elbows.

"I had a bad dream."

"Oh no!" exclaimed Mr. McDaniels in mock horror. "What about?"

"A big dog," Max murmured sleepily, pushing his dark hair off his forehead.

"A big dog! Well, did he bite you or did you bite him?"

"Neither," Max whispered.

His father patted his foot and stood up.

"Well, just remember—it's not the size of the dog in the fight, but the size of the fight in the dog."  
Max sank back under the covers and wriggled toward the foot of the bed.

"I know, Dad. You've told me a hundred times."

"So I have." Mr. McDaniels chuckled. "Hop in the shower and get ready. Someone from the school is on your flight, and we're supposed to meet him at the airport by eight."

Max groaned as his father whisked the covers off the bed and drew the curtains to reveal a morning sky of peach and pale gold.

Nigel was waiting near the check-in, holding up a paper sign that read MCDANIELS and looking rather bored. The Recruiter was dressed neatly in a sport coat but had seen too much sun since his visit with Max. He stopped adjusting his glasses and extended his hand as the McDanielses approached.

"Hello there. You must be Mr. McDaniels—I'm Nigel Bristow from Rowan."

"Call me Scott, Nigel," said Mr. McDaniels, taking Nigel's hand. "This is Max, your copilot for the day."

"Hello, Max," said Nigel brightly, giving a quick wink. "Thanks for coming along. Flying is such a bore without good company. We're a bit pressed for time, eh? Let's get you checked in."

Once Nigel had taken Max's duffel and stood in line, Mr. McDaniels gave Max a nudge. "Seems like a nice enough guy," he said.

"Yeah," said Max, puzzling over why Nigel would be holding up a sign with his name. Given all that had happened, Max thought his name and travel plans would be more of a secret.

Nigel called over to Max when it was their turn to check in. Max answered the lady's questions and watched his bag disappear down the conveyor.

"Well, we're all set," said Nigel, clutching their tickets. "I'll leave you a minute to say good-bye to your father," Nigel said under his breath as the two made their way back to where Mr. McDaniels stood with his hands in his pockets. "I know this sounds cruel, but try to be quick. No tears. It's important."

Nigel said his farewells and promised to look after Max before joining the long line snaking toward security. Remembering what Nigel told him, Max avoided his father's eyes. He flicked his fingers against his thumbs and looked straight ahead at Mr. McDaniels's big yellow shirt.

"All right, Max. Here's where I say good-bye."

Max nodded.

"You're just the best, you know. The best boy a father could ask for.

Max felt his father's arms wrap tightly around him. Max shut his eyes and promised to call and write and say prayers for his mother. When his father finally let him go, Max walked stiffly to where Nigel was waiting. He did not look back.

Nigel left Max to his own thoughts until they were through security.

"Well done," he said at last. "I know that wasn't easy."

"Was that _another_ test?" asked Max thickly.

"No," said Nigel. "A precaution. This airport's a very busy place today. We need to avoid anything too _real_."

"What do you—"

Max cut his own question short as he saw a boy who looked very much like himself walking in the opposite direction. Max blinked. The boy did not just look like him—it looked _exactly_ like him.

"Try not to stare," said Nigel casually, increasing their pace a step. "They're on our side."

Max passed himself several more times. He noticed that the boys were always accompanied by one or two serious-looking adults.

"You must be tired," said Nigel quietly as they finally took their seats on the crowded plane. "I bet you had no idea you've been taking over a dozen flights a day for the past three days…."

"But—"

Nigel held up a finger to quiet him.

"Agents. Decoys. We can talk more when we get to Rowan," said Nigel, procuring a bar of chocolate and a deck of cards from his briefcase. "We're not quite out of the woods."

Max nibbled the chocolate and listened to the plane's engines as Nigel dealt the cards.

Several hours later, the plane set down. Nigel led Max out of the plane, along the moving walkways, and down toward baggage claim.

Nigel had just swung his duffel off the carousel when Max saw someone step out suddenly from behind a nearby pillar.

It was the man from the train—the man with the dead white eye.

His coat was just as dirty and his eye just as unsettling as Max remembered. He stood as still as a stone between them and the exit while people filed past.

"He's here," Max whispered.

Nigel appeared not to hear as he fumbled with Max's duffel.

"_He's here!_" shouted Max, clutching Nigel's arm.

Nigel shot him a puzzled glance before squinting past him.

His face went white.

The Recruiter immediately gripped Max by the collar and spun him around. Nigel marched him back up the stairs they had just descended. As they swam against a tide of startled faces, Max tried to look behind them, but there were too many people.

Nigel was speaking rapidly into a slim phone at his ear, but Max could not hear what was said. They crossed over to the next terminal, where Nigel hurried Max out the sliding doors and into a limousine that had screeched to a sudden halt at the curb.

The car sped onto the highway and made its way north while Nigel typed text messages into his phone, looking uncharacteristically grim. Over an hour passed in tense silence before they suddenly veered off the interstate and merged onto a smaller road. They were very near the coast; tall grasses swayed by the roadside as they wound their way past small farms and towns. Weathered signs advertised public beaches, fresh lobster, and clamming excursions. It all seemed very alien.

Nigel glanced out the back window. The road behind them had been empty for miles. Apparently satisfied, he pressed a button and rolled down the window. The warm summer air rushed in, fragrant and heavy with salt.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, his serious expression softening to a smile.

"I'm fine now. It was him, you know—that man at the airport. He's the one who was following me at the museum."

"Yes, I know. He matched your description perfectly. It was a nasty shock, no question about it. But mission accomplished: here you are, safe and sound!"

Max took a deep breath; it seemed the first real breath he'd taken since the airport.

"Nigel, my dad's okay, isn't he? They won't bother him now that I'm here…?"

"He'll be fine, Max," Nigel said sympathetically. "You're the one they want."

Nigel looked past Max and pointed at something out the window. Max turned in time to glimpse an old wooden sign:

**Welcome To Rowan Township, Est. 1649**

They passed a few tidy cottages on the outskirts. The Atlantic Ocean shimmered ahead as Max took in the clipped lawns, fresh paint, and clean awnings. The town's buildings were old but beautifully maintained. An old-fashioned movie theater rolled past, followed by a town green and a coffeehouse. Beyond these were a jumble of shops and small restaurants. Passing the row of businesses, they arrived at a small white church whose signboard indicated Rowan Academy was just ahead. Max swallowed and felt his pulse quicken.

They turned off the road onto a smooth lane, passing beneath a towering green canopy formed by the overlapping branches of tall, twisty trees lining the road. They accelerated toward a high gate of black iron flanked by a sturdy stone gatehouse. The gate swung inward as they approached. Max tried to get a better look at a striking silver crest when the limousine crossed the threshold, but the gate swung shut behind them.

The road had become a gravel lane, and the car now followed it to the right, plunging into a thick wood of ash and oak and beech.

Max turned to Nigel.

"Why wouldn't you let me say good-bye to my day? Why did you make me hurry?"

"Oh, that—I_ am_ sorry. We needed to stay as consistent as possible with the others—those decoys—that preceded you. You did very well."

"Who _were_ those other kids? Are they in danger?"

Nigel smiled.

"Those _weren't_ kids, and they are well equipped to deal with any dangers that might arise. You've seen your first Agents, Max."

Nigel wriggled out of his sport coat and held it up against the window. Max saw large dark stains under the arms. Nigel sighed.

"But I'm _not_ an agent, just a poor old Recruiter caught in the middle and not quite cut out for all this cloak-and-dagger stuff." He sniffed once at the jacket before folding it neatly on his lap.

"Why were you the one traveling with me, then?" asked Max.

"The Agents insisted I'd be the best decoy out there," Nigel admitted sheepishly. "They really can be brutal, you know."

"They were wrong," Max said. "That man wasn't fooled. And anyway, I'm glad I got to travel with you and not some boring Agent."

Nigel brightened as the limousine slowed for an upcoming turn.

"Thank you, Max….Welcome to Rowan."

The limousine emerged from the thick wood and into an enormous sunny clearing of smooth lawns, athletic fields, colorful gardens, and old stone buildings set near the sea. Max stuck his head out the window and listened to the seagulls. The car followed the lane along a grassy bluff high above the water's edge before curving away to conclude at a large circular drive and a sprawling mansion of light gray stone. Many cars were parked in front.

Max opened his door and gaped at a marble fountain of fish-tailed horses spraying water high into the air. Through the mist, he squinted up at the mansion. He couldn't begin to count its windows and chimneys.

"One hundred and eleven," muttered Nigel, shuffling around the car with Max's duffel.

"What?" said Max, uncertain if his ears had fully popped from the flight.

"The Manse has one hundred and eleven chimneys. You were trying to count them."

"How did you know?" asked Max, troubled that his thoughts were so transparent.

"Because I tried to do the very same thing when I arrived here—oh dear Lord—some thirty years ago."

The Recruiter chuckled and stooped to pluck a white flower from among several clustered on the flagstones at Max's feet.

"Rowan blossom," he said, gesturing at the dozen slender trees ringing the drive. Nigel closed Max's door and led Max up a number of stone steps, pausing a moment before the mansion's great double doors.

"Ah—one thing, Max. I recognize the temptations, but I would greatly appreciate it if you wouldn't mention any of our _excitement_ to anyone. That man, Mrs. Millen—any of it, frankly. The less gossip, the better our chances at fixing all this. Will you promise to discuss this only with the Director, and then only if asked?"

Max nodded solemnly and shook Nigel's hand.

"Good," said Nigel, visibly relieved. "Let's join the others. Orientation's already started."

Max followed Nigel through the double doors and into a tall foyer flanked by sweeping staircases on each side. They passed through a door beneath the landing and down a long hallway, past several rooms, before stopping at a closed door of polished walnut. Max heard Miss Awolowo's rich, warm voice speaking on the other side.

"Ack! Just as I feared," said Nigel. "This door always creaks. Sorry about this…."

The door gave a long, slow squeal as Nigel pushed it open. Hundreds of people turned and looked at the two of them as they stood in the doorway of a little theater. Miss Awolowo paused mid-sentence from where she stood at a podium.

"Ah! There you are! I was beginning to wonder. Ladies and gentlemen, please say hello to Max McDaniels, who joins us from the city of Chicago, right here in the United States."

Max scanned the sea of faces in mute embarrassment. He gave a little wave as Nigel led him to a seat in the back row. Miss Awolowo continued on; Max heard something about internships.

"Going to clean up a bit and make some calls," Nigel whispered, patting Max on the shoulder. "I'll check in with you later—before configuration."

Max nodded until he realized that something was missing.

"Nigel," he whispered urgently, "what _configuration_?"

There was no answer. He turned, but the Recruiter had already slipped out. A skinny girl with braces and her mother motioned for Max to be quiet. Max scowled back at them turned to hear Miss Awolowo.

It was mostly talk of contact information and faculty advisors and school holidays and schedules. Max tuned most of it out and studied his new classmates instead. They did not look like the students at his old school; there was much more diversity sprinkled throughout these seats. While many wore foreign clothes, Max was more interested in subtler differences, such as their posture and facial expressions. He thought many looked older and very serious. He was trying to guess their ages when the whole audience stood and began to file up the aisles.

The scene outside in the driveway was awkward, and Max did his best to keep to the edges while those who had arrived with their parents said good-bye. Tears were shed and luggage was stacked in a cacophony of sound as Miss Awolowo answered last minute questions and ushered parents to their cars. He watched the skinny girl with braces cling to her mother, weeping uncontrollably until Miss Awolowo gently pried her away and led her mother to a taxi. Max felt guilty for making a face at them.

When the parents had all gone, Miss Awolowo led them into the great foyer. She climbed one of the staircases to address them from the landing.

"All right, children. We now must get you situated in your rooms. Before room assignments, however, I would like to make an announcement concerning Rowan, a place very dear to me and your new home."

The air became very still; the chattering stopped immediately. Something in the older woman's voice had changed.

"Thank you. Until you are given a full tour of the grounds and premises, I ask that you stick only to those rooms and areas that I designate. As you will see, the Manse and the rest of Rowan's campus are…strange. This campus and its buildings possess a certain unpredictability that can baffle our most senior faculty. There are also a variety of contraptions throughout this house and grounds whose proper workings require careful instruction. As it is only our first day, I have no desire to rescue or mourn any foolhardy students. Is this understood?"

Miss Awolowo's frank and penetrating look swept from face to face just as Nigel appeared on the landing behind her.

"Wonderful." She beamed. "Now, before the configuration begins, let me say the following. If history has taught us anything, it is that some students are inevitably disappointed with their rooms or roommates or both. If such is the case, I am sorry but urge you to make the best of it. Room configurations and roommate assignments cannot be changed. So, no crying, no whining. Agreed?"

The children nodded slowly and shot puzzled glances at one another.

"Excellent. This is Nigel Bristow. I believe some of you have already made his acquaintance. He'll be showing the boys their rooms. The young ladies will come with me."

"All right, then," Nigel called down to them. "Up here and follow after me."

Max swarmed up the stairs with the other boys. Miss Awolowo's voice called after them.

"Good luck, Nigel! Good luck, boys! Meet back in the foyer at five for a quick tour before dinner. Listen for the chimes!"

Max hurried after Nigel, alongside dozens of other students.

"Okay, boys—keep up, keep up," the Recruiter said. "North Wing's for the gents here at Rowan; the ladies stay in the South Wing, so if you find yourself without a urinal in sight, you know you're in the wrong place."

The boys giggled as they climbed a spiral staircase whose creaky wooden banister had been worn to a smooth polish. Nigel's voice echoed from above.

"As it happens, your class is on the third floor. Unlucky you. Third and Fourth Years will torment you from the second floor. Fifth and Sixth years enjoy first-floor convenience and feel very much entitled to it."

Max emerged from the stairwell into a long, broad hallway arched with heavy beams. It was lined on either side with dozens of gleaming green doors. Nigel led them toward the far end of the hallway. Straggling behind, Max noticed that each door had a large, ornate keyhole and a shiny silver numeral in its center. Next to each door was a towering plaque of polished black wood and brass, the first two dozen of which were engraved with names.

Reaching the end of the hall—where, Max noted, the plaques were black—Nigel turned to the boys, who began to fidget.

"Let's see…sixty-nine, seventy, and Omar there makes seventy-one. Excellent—didn't lose anyone along the way! Hooray for me. Now, when I say the word, go hunt for your name on the plaques next to the doors. When you see your name, hold right there and do nothing else. Everyone understand?"

A stocky, handsome boy with chestnut hair and bright blue eyes raised his hand. His Irish accent was so thick that Max could hardly understand him.

"Our names are already on them?"

"What's your name, O curious creature?"

"Connor Lynch."

"No," said Nigel, rubbing his hands together. "But they _will_ be. That's part of the fun. You don't pick your roommates and neither do we; that's the Manse's job….Everyone ready? Go find your room!"

To Max it seemed like a frantic Easter egg hunt as the other boys sprinted or bumped into one another to scour the nameplates up and down the hall.

"I've found mine!" called a short boy who looked like a mouse.

"Me too!" cried another, losing his retainer.

Max walked slowly down the hall as the other boys shouted in excitement and jumped about. Max wanted to be excited, too, but he felt queasy—the lurking presence within him was stirring once again. He stopped before Room 318 and stared at the plaque next to the door. As though scripted by an invisible hand, two names appeared where before there had been none. Max ran his fingers over his name, feeling the letters etched deep into the brass. A cough sounded behind him.

"Our names are there, too, aren't they?"

Max turned at the voice which sounded American. He looked down at a small boy with skin as pale as milk. The boy's features were small and faint, except for purplish circles beneath his eyes. He looked unhealthy, like an underexposed photograph.

The figure behind him was just the opposite. Tall (about half a foot taller than Max), with tan skin, gray eyes, and black hair, he was the picture of health. Whereas the smaller boy was short and extremely skinny, the tall boy standing before him was broad-shouldered and muscular with skin that seemed to have a glow to it. The eyes were extremely intelligent, too. They seemed as though they were looking through you, to your very soul, analyzing who you were, what you were like, figuring out everything about you.

Shaking himself, Max asked, "Are you David Menlo and Michael D'Arco?"

The boys nodded and the smaller one said, "I'm David." "And I'm Michael," the tall boy behind him said in a melodious tone that was rather deep for his age.

"I'm Max."

Just then, Max heard Nigel's voice rise above the din.

"_Aha!_ Stop right there, Jesse Chu! Didn't you hear me before? Do _not_ do anything else until I instruct you to!"

A chunky Asian boy across the hall scowled and yanked his hand away from his doorknob as though it was hot. Nigel walked briskly toward him, wagging a finger. He stopped, however, as he saw Max, David, and Michael standing by their door.

"Hey there—who are you three missing?"

Max glanced again at the plaque, realizing the other groups had four or even five boys in them.

"No one," said Max. "Our names are the only ones."

"Really?" said Nigel, giving a curious smile and leaning in for a closer look. "How very strange."

He shook his head before cupping his hands to be heard throughout the long hallway.

"Now, _when I instruct you to_, I want you to open the doors and step inside your respective rooms. Once inside, you will lock the door behind you and shut your eyes. You will soon feel dizzy—it is to be expected. Keep your eyes shut until the feeling subsides entirely. To be safe, I recommend that you count to three once the dizziness stops before you have a look around. Everyone clear?"

Max nodded with the others, terrified.

"All right, gents. Please enter your rooms and let the configurations begin."

Max looked at David, who inclined his head, suggesting Max should open the door. The three tentatively stepped into a small dark room with a plain stone floor and knotty wood walls.

"Are you ready?" Max whispered. "When I lock the door, shut your eyes. When the dizziness stops, let me know and we'll all count to three. Okay?"

Taking quick, shallow breaths and trying to ignore the furious patter of his heart, Max locked the door and squeezed his eyes shut.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Slowly, however, his body felt as though it was accelerating to a tremendous speed while spinning like a top. The sensation intensified for what seemed to be a full minute, culminating in a gagging wave of nausea.

He was on the verge of being sick when the spinning stopped. His body felt almost weightless, as though drifting slowly back to the earth. Moments later, the feeling had subsided. He hissed at the other two boys in the room.

"Has it stopped?"

"I think so, yeah," David replied.

"It feels like it," Michael said.

"Okay. Count with me. One. Two. _Thr—arghh!"_ Max shouted out in pain as he felt a sudden gut-wrenching pain in his stomach and doubled over. From the sounds the others were making, it sounded as though they were experiencing the pain, too.

Slowly, the pain began to fade and Max asked, with his eyes still closed, "What…pant, pant…was that?"

"I don't know," Michael managed to pant out.

"Alright, I guess we should open our eyes now, then," Max said.

Max slowly opened his eyes and drew in a sharp breath.

Instead of the small square room, they now stood on a balcony some seventy feet above the ground in a grand hall which stretched as far as they could see in either direction. In the center of the hall, there was a circular stone platform with three beds, three enormous wardrobes, and three rather large work desks stationed in an even circle around the edge of the platform. The top of the platform was roped off with a red velvet rope and must have been a good ten feet above the ground.

Rushing to one of the grand sets of stairs to either side of them, the boys sprinted down the stairs and up the platform before jumping onto the massive king-sized beds. After laying on the bed for a minute or two, the boys looked up at the ceiling and noticed the thousands upon thousands of books on numerous extremely elaborate, dark black bookshelves which continued all along the wall on three different levels of balconies. On the level just above the highest balcony with the bookshelves, there were numerous high-tech vaults with what looked like retinal scanners and keypads like you see in the movies. Each of these was ten feet across and ten feet high. They too, lined the walls as far as one could see. Looking around at the walls on the ground level, they saw there were arched niches carved into the walls that continued down the hall. There were also many tables with instruments that a scholar might use.

On the level they had just descended from, there were hundreds of doors all along the walls. All of them the same size, but many marked with various strange and mysterious symbols. Glancing around the platform on which they rested, Max was astonished to see their bags folded neatly by different wardrobes along with their other things.

"What do you think?" David breathed beside him as they all stood and came to the center of the platform.

Max whirled and shook David by the shoulders.

"_I think it's amazing!_"

"_Incredible!_" Michael shouted.

With a series of triumphant woops, the three raced up the stairs and onto the first balcony. Upon reaching the top level, there was a knock on the door.

"Hey there!" Nigel's voice sounded a bit worried. "Max? David? Michael? Open up, boys , and let's have a look. Boys?"

They ran to the door and swung it open. Nigel stood outside with the Irish boy, Connor.

"Oh, thank goodness! Had me worried there that you'd gone and lost yourselves! Mind if I have a peek? I'm always curious how these configurations turn out—never seen two the same."

As Nigel entered the room, he froze and scanned the threshold.

"No vomit. Well done, gentlemen! These are new loafers, after all!"

He stepped past them and gasped.

"Oh, this is _incredible_! Simply magnificent! You'll want to explore this much more thoroughly, when you get the chance. This is so much more inspiring than my old room! I begged to switch the god-awful thing. You would, too, if you'd gotten a Mongolian yurt!"

Max and David savored their triumph as Nigel poked around, muttering the occasional "Would you look at that!" and "Those lucky devils!"

Connor Lynch stepped in after Nigel and stood gaping at the high arched ceiling hundreds of feet above them. His bright blue eyes blinked in wonder, and he delivered an impressed thumbs-up to Max and David before stepping back into the hallway. A minute later, Nigel sauntered up the steps, shaking his head and scowling at the two of them.

"I don't want to hear even a _peep_ of complaint from you three for the next six years! Oh, my wife would kill for just _one_ of those bookcases, you scoundrels! I'll never understand how this old Manse works." He threw his hands up with feigned disgust, brushing past them into the hallway, where the others were now darting in packs to explore the various rooms in a chorus of shouts and slamming doors. Max and David peered in at a medieval bedchamber high atop a tower and a Japanese temple before stumbling into a very plain room across the hall.

They looked around in awkward silence. Connor was lingering in the room alone; his roommates had apparently left to explore. The only sounds came from a small fire sputtering in a modest brick hearth. The room was not any bigger than the bare room Max had entered before the configuration. Narrow wooden bunks beds were stacked beneath a low, flat ceiling of dark beams. The room was otherwise furnished with only one small desk and a red rocker positioned near the fireplace. Two small windows were cut through the plaster walls. They looked onto a lazy, sunlit meadow dotted with wildflowers.

Nigel poked his head in and broke the silence.

"A cozy little nook to hang your hat in, eh, Mr. Lynch?"

"Yeah, Nigel, home sweet home. Not a traffic-stopper, but it'll do."

Connor hopped up onto one of the top bunks and dangled his legs over the side, grinning at them defiantly. Max liked him immediately.

"C'mon, boys," said Nigel. "Help me round up the others, and let's get back to the foyer."

Nigel hurried down the hall as Max, David, Michael, and Connor looked down into a sunken room that appeared to be the captain's quarters of a luxurious galleon. Three large portholes showed a distant sunset and dark blue waves lapped at the glass. The room's four occupants were laughing as they sat on the cozy beds that were sunk into deep alcoves. Sea chests and old maps and bright yellow lanterns were scattered about. Connor spoke up just as a brightly colored fish leapt past one of the portholes.

"Hey—Nigel wants us out there. Come on."

The boys nodded and took turns climbing up the brass ladder.

"Honestly," said Connor as they filed past, "if any of you boys get the wobblies down there, just let me know and we can swap out. You there!" He shot a finger at the last boy to climb out. "You're lookin' awfully pasty. We should probably switch rooms, mate."

"Never!" shouted the boy, running after Nigel.

Connor sighed and fell in step with Max and David. By this time, Nigel had managed to gather most of the class back at the staircase.

"Right, then, congratulations on completing your configurations. You're a lucky lot, you know. Some of the chaps in my class got stuck with a dungeon, a moldy wine cellar, and a chicken roost!"

"But, Nigel" said a boy, "_how_ did the rooms change? Did you change them?"

Nigel shook his head.

"Dear me, no. This is Old Magic—far older and far stronger than anything Nigel Bristow can conjure up. But more of the Manse and Old Magic after dinner."

The chimes began just as Nigel herded them down the stairs.


End file.
